


Baker Street Advent 2017

by OtakuElf



Series: Biological Clock [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Advent, Angels, Books, Christmas, Dragons, Father Christmas - Freeform, Gift Giving, M/M, Santa Claus - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-12-01
Updated: 2017-12-14
Packaged: 2019-02-09 05:04:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 15,447
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12880758
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OtakuElf/pseuds/OtakuElf
Summary: It's Advent!  And time for Sherlock to continue his experiments... aherm... traditions with John and the children.





	1. December 1st.  The Hobbit

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you to Lunamoth116 for beta-reading!

December 1st. Time for an update to his blog.

John Watson was typing into his dying laptop, attempting to get the blog post out of the way before beginning their day, when his son joined him in the front room. Stifling a curse -- the words he had so painstakingly entered vanished inexplicably -- John turned at the odd dragging sound behind him and discovered a head of red curls sticking out of an outsized burgundy bedsheet. There was no way to prevent the bray of laughter that escaped.

“Daddy!” Siger’s eyes -- so much like his biological father’s, shifting from green to gray against the red of the dyed cotton -- widened. “I am a dragon. I am not funny, I am terrifying!”

“I beg your pardon, Siger.” John controlled himself. “‘It does not do to leave a live dragon out of your calculations, if you live near him,’” the man quoted. He did know quite a few words from the book. When the movies had been released, he’d gone back to the basics and reread _**The Hobbit**_ , then worked his way through the entire _**Lord of the Rings**_. Picking up _**The Silmarillion**_ had been a mistake, and that was sitting on the shelf, long unread. John had not attempted any of the more recent books by Tolkien’s son.

“No, Daddy. It does not.” Crisp and clear, his son no longer had a small voice. In fact, they were having difficulty keeping the volume toned down. The three-year-old -- well, halfway to four -- pulled hard on the immense expanse of dark red cotton cloth from the master bedroom. It was hung up on an impediment in the hallway. 

“Well?” John Watson said. At Siger’s blank look, he elaborated, “Let’s hear your growl then. Don’t dragons roar?”

“Just a minute, Daddy.” The fierce dragon dropped his cotton sheet and scampered out of sight down the hallway to release the tail end of his wine-colored skin. “Miri!” came the muffled shout. “Open the door! You closed it on my sheet!”

Little sister Miri had the habit of closing doors and cabinets. It was a typical two-year-old obsession. This was not an issue most times, as there were times when some of the older people were handling three or more children and whatever task they had undertaken. But she also did this while the cupboards or doorways were in actual use. Siger found this more annoying than anyone else, and his high-pitched voice could be heard lecturing his toddler sister. No sound from Ross, as usual.

The skinny preschooler -- Siger was in the midst of a growth spurt -- ran out of the hall, tripping and catching himself on the length of cloth blocking the hallway. “Okay, Daddy,” he said, gathering up the end of the cloth, looking backward, and pulling to make sure it was no longer caught in the doorway. 

Drawing the expensively-hemmed edge of the sheet over his head like an old woman’s shawl, Siger crouched on the floor, one hand clutching his dragon skin to him as the other clawed forward. The growl did not start as deeply as it might have, but intensity grew into an impressive enough roar from a skinny, small boy. It ended in a cough, as Siger was recovering from a cold.

“You are a frightening and immense dragon, Siger. I cannot see the amazing length of your tail, as it disappears into the cavern behind you!” his father told him, impressed but amused.

Siger snorted at him. “Never laugh at live dragons, Daddy!” he scolded.

“No, of course not,” his daddy replied, and then, with an exaggerated seriousness, added, “You are the chiefest of calamities!”

A deep voice echoed from the stairwell: “Certainly the greatest of calamities to our bedclothes!” 

“ _Père!_ ” Siger turned to claw at the air toward the consulting detective, and roared again. This ended with a cough as well.

“Time for your medicine, Siger, I think.” Sherlock Holmes raised a bag from the chemist’s.

John threw his husband a startled frown. “You picked that up already?”

“Of course not, John.” Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Alice Brown picked it up on her way into the office this morning.”

John Watson muttered as he turned back to his laptop, “Of course she did. _You_ were supposed to do that.”

Ignoring the grumblings of the good doctor, the taller man spoke to his son, “Let’s get your dragon outfit out of the hallway, Siger. Then we can have breakfast, and you’ll take your medicine. Your sisters are in the bedroom?” And the man swept Siger off, leaving John to his battle with the laptop.

The older blond man pecked at his keys for a trifling period of time. He mumbled something about the wearing of sheets being genetic before calling, “Sherlock? Have you been reading **_The Hobbit_** to Siger?”

A dark, curly-haired head popped around the corner of the kitchen. “Don’t be ridiculous, John.” As it disappeared back out of sight, the doctor heard, “We watched the movies with Bert.”

John Watson closed the laptop and banged his head, gently, on the lid. 

Sighing after a moment, he thought, _Time to work on the classics, I guess._ Because it was a given that Sherlock Holmes had deleted most works of literature unless they pertained to crime.


	2. December 2nd.  Murder for Christmas.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> And they've been chasing bad guys for days. What next?

It was December 2nd. Doctor John Watson, former soldier, currently holder of medical licensing, but self-employed as the assistant to his amazing spouse, Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes, used the full weight of his body on the arm twisted behind the back of the villain lying face down in the mud by the edge of the Thames. Occasionally -- and making certain that his captive was not expecting it -- the doctor allowed a moment for breathing before pressing firmly down again. 

“Where is Lestrade?” For a man who despised repetition, this was a sentence that Sherlock Holmes voiced with regularity. It wasn’t that John was particularly tired of hearing that phrase. The doctor had been running all over London after his partner for a fortnight now. Brief breaks at home to see the children and update the blog were not enough to maintain adequate physical health when combined with too little sleep. And fast food.

“John? Sherlock?” Ah, the MET had arrived.

“About time, Lestrade,” grumbled the tall, pacing consultant. Repetition again. Not necessarily a bad thing. John was noticing it right now, for some reason. Perhaps it was the exhaustion.

John could feel the weight of that tiredness hit him as they exited the cab at Baker Street later on that evening. It made him slower in keeping up with the chatter from his partner. Sherlock had talked all the way from the Met, and was still going on about a scattershot variety of topics. “We’re behind schedule, John,” his best friend chided him as he unlocked the black-painted front door of 221. 

“We have a schedule?” John asked from where he paid the cab driver.

“Traditionally --” Sherlock turned and told him earnestly “-- you would have set up the fairy lights in the foyer, in our flat, and outside of Mrs. Hudson’s quarters. It is the beginning of December. We must prepare for Christmas.”

John Watson had a moment of frozen wonder, blinking and startled. “We’re behind schedule for Christmas?”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded.

“After two weeks of chasing after a murder-for-hire gang?” John clarified. 

“Yes.” Sherlock gestured for his husband to hurry up the steps through the now-open door.

John nodded, then went on, “Who took their methods from classic mystery series, and pulp novels.”

The consulting detective gave a sideways shrug, then nodded in return.

“That you,” John pointed out, “only figured out because Mrs. Hudson likes trash telly and fiction.”

Sherlock Holmes gestured, a circle to encourage John Watson to get on with whatever reproach he was working toward.

“You have deleted the majority of the fiction you were required to read in school. And mocked my collection of thrillers.” John was finished.

“Your point, John?” The taller man did not add “tedious”, but his tone made it all too obvious.

They stepped into the foyer. John picked up the mail on the mat, and went through it idly as they walked toward 221C. 

“We’re going to be correcting that. We’re going to share literature with the children, not just facts. Not just history, and the lives of famous criminologists.”

“And medical men and women,” Sherlock added.

“Yes, well…” John hid a smile. “We’ll be concentrating on stories for a while, regardless. Doesn’t mean we’ll stop --” He didn’t get to finish that sentence.

“Yes, yes, we won’t stop their training in logical thinking or whatever their interests are. Does that really need to be said, John?” huffed Sherlock.

“No.” The smile was no longer hidden. “I guess not.”

“Good.” Sherlock Holmes headed down into their agency’s office. “You can plan your literary strategy after you set up the fairy lights.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Murder for Christmas is by Agatha Christie.


	3. December 3rd.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John begins researching. He has some assistance.

December 3rd already. John Watson stared at the date heading the blank page of his blog. He was late in working on it. No cases, thank heaven, but just clearing up all of the housekeeping from the past two weeks. Mrs. Hudson -- their landlady -- Alice Brown -- their office manager -- and Bert Tran -- their au pair -- were amazingly flexible in taking care of Siger, Miri, and Ross. But they were not their housekeepers. 

Not to mention John actually spent time with his children. Siger was at the end of his cold, and sniffled as he built a three-dimensional paper sculpture that was beginning to look like a dragon. Miri was asleep on the floor next to her brother, wrapped in Auntie Harriet’s afghan, her fingers curled up near her small red mouth. 

“Daddy?” Ross leaned against his leg, she and her faded red teddy bear resting their heads on the comfort of a father at home after missing him for the past few weeks. Ross did not speak often. Some of their acquaintances had never heard the little dark-haired girl speak. 

“Come on up, my little rose,” John said as he pulled both girl and bear into his lap. “I --” they were working on pronouns, not referring to themselves as “daddy” or “père” anymore “-- am looking for good books to read to you and your siblings while we get ready for Christmas.”

Siger looked up. “You read the Christmas story to us every year. Sometimes more than once,” the boy asserted. “And ‘Dulce Domum.’”

“Yes. Yes, I do. But I’m looking for more stories. Some that your _Père_ has not read.” _And not deleted,_ he thought.

Siger’s comment echoed his thought: “ _Père_ deletes stories.”

John nodded and snuggled Ross closer in his arms. “True. I am keeping that in mind, Siger.”

“Good.” Siger nodded and went back to his creation.

Giving up on the blog, John went back to a saved search from the local public library. A lengthy list of titles available appeared: adult as well as children’s tales, fiction and legend. He’d cut out the nonfiction, craft, and activities materials. 

“Dulce Domum” appeared, of course. It was just a chapter in _The Wind in the Willows_ , but had a solid reputation as a Christmas classic. John was pleased that his children -- well, Siger mostly -- seemed to love it as much as he did.

 _The Grinch Who Stole Christmas_ \-- that invoked memories for the doctor of a green villain who learned the meaning of giving. Not of Christmas. It was pretty much a secular title. Not that John was avoiding secular. He’d read Bible stories to his children consistently. They would know the background behind the season, the history. 

Oh, good. A train story. Ross would like that one. Chapters of longer children’s works showed up as well. As he copied and pasted ideas one-handed into a longer document, he was aware when Ross gave a deep sigh and fell asleep against his chest.

Hmmm. This was going to be work. John was going to have to read all of these titles before he brought them into the nursery. Of course, there was a box of books in the attic crawl space. Books that Mycroft and Greg, that Molly, or Bert, Auntie Harriet or Clara, or Mrs. Hudson, or Alice Brown gave to the children were kept in the nursery. There were even books from Mike Stamford and his wife in there -- some hand-me-downs, some purchased for holidays. Looking back, there were an awful lot of people buying his children books, clothing, and primarily educational toys. Harry’s presents tended toward the deliberately annoying, but equally fascinating to the youngest residents of the flat.

Being public figures (Hatman and Robin -- how John loathed that nickname in the press) meant that they received unsolicited items for themselves and for the children. They had fans, who sent them things. There were also corporations hoping to garner a celebrity recommendation that sent them boxes of goods. 

Anything that was not junk was sorted through by Alice Brown when she did the mail and accounts receivable. If she thought an item useful, it was packed in a specific spot in the office, and set aside for Sherlock and John to look through. Often John did not see anything in the wooden chest that Alice Brown used because Sherlock considered whatever was in the chest to be his property. He needed these items, he claimed, for use in experiments in his lab. This was because John selfishly refused to allow his spouse to swipe his own clothing or property, or those of Siger, Ross, and Miri.

They had, however, been sent children’s literature that John had thriftily put away for their offspring for the future. Everything else was sent to Oxfam or Great Ormond Street for those less fortunate.

Of course, now that he’d thought of that box -- or was it boxes? -- John was trapped under the welcome comfort of his cuddling daughter. If this was the greatest hardship in his life, John Watson was a very lucky man.

\---

John’s partner was taking advantage of John’s current domesticity, and captivity by their daughter, to review. Sherlock Holmes did not believe in luck, although he used the term “lucky” as a phrase often enough. It was a way of communicating with the common human being. They believed in luck, that invisible force that allowed them to get what they wished for without making an actual effort. Sherlock Holmes worked for what he attained. And if sometimes things happened in his favour without deliberate intent, then that was not luck. It was happenstance or coincidence, or the conspiracy of whatever criminal he was currently chasing after.

John had gotten a bee in his bonnet. Sherlock knew that look of obstinate determination. As if they did not have any number of adequate science and picture books available for Siger, Miranda and Rosalind. 

True, Sherlock did tend to read informational materials. He often read from his technical journals and articles out loud at night to the children. The consulting detective found that helped him to discover more in the writing than he would have found in reading it to himself, much like having John give him feedback allowed for illumination on the subject. Even if John was invariably incorrect.

Christmas tales. Ensconced inside his Mind Palace, Sherlock grumbled as he surveyed a library of children’s works that displayed numerous empty spaces. 

There was, of course, _Treasure Island._ Illustrations by Pyle in the grand fashion of fictional pirates. The spine glowed a lovely dark blue, uncovered and well-loved.

A row of poetry books, entirely in French, showed up to the left. This was the library of children’s works. His forensics collection and other adult books were housed in a much larger facility.

Only one shelf was completely filled: dark wood, polished and holding nursery rhymes. That shelf started from the left, with older volumes that he remembered his mother’s cool, quiet voice sharing while he and Mycroft curled up together on the sofa in the salon, or in bed at night. Those took up about half of the shelf. 

The rest of the packed shelf contained Siger’s, Miranda’s, and Rosalind’s favorites. Sherlock Holmes didn’t bother with _all_ of the books his children owned. Just the titles that were loved in particular.

One shelf of golden blonde beechwood held three works. This was where the detective kept his memories of the Christian Bible. He was not a believer, but John was, and therefore it was shelved on his husband’s shelf in the library. Possibly it should have been in the room of his Mind Palace that housed causes of fanaticism. Or historical crimes. John had become more important.

Certainly it was not a children’s book. But John’s time spent reading bits and pieces to their offspring at night from the creaking rocking chair had switched the collection to which Sherlock felt it belonged.

Second was a representation of the worn, cover-clad copy of _The Magic City_ that John’s mother had read to him. The actual book was downstairs, of course. John treated it with reverence, but had not shared the work with Siger as of yet. Sherlock had read it soon after Harry sent it to the flat. He had wanted to get more information on John’s growth and thought processes. There was a good deal of magic in the fiction. 

The third book was _The Wind in the Willows_ by Kenneth Grahame. John’s favorite chapters, including “Dulce Domum” -- the Christmas chapter without including actual religion -- were bookmarked. Sherlock had quietly read the entirety of the book when John was not looking. 

It was a puzzling story. Two friends living together. One tall and slender, the other shorter. The shorter character, Mole, trotting about after his friend the Water Rat, clueless and yet bringing heart to the plotline. 

There were, of course, criminals -- the stoats and weasels of the Wild Wood, although they were not a particularly clever criminal class. There was danger, which the shy Mole was more than happy to take up a revolver or a cudgel and whack at. There was a waistcoated Toad causing anarchy and chaos. Sherlock had decided that character would do for Mycroft, even if it was a bit forced. Which made the surly old Badger Lestrade in his mental recording of the story.

Hm. Perhaps now was a time to take a break from casework. Unless Lestrade or a client could come up with a nine. Sherlock could give John time to work on his approach to literacy, and finish off some experiments he’d been meaning to tend to.

It would not hurt to fill some of these shelves with new material. The project would assist Sherlock in his duties as a father. And provide reference for understanding the children’s peers when they reached school age.

Leaving his Mind Palace, the man stretched, rose from where he’d perched on Siger’s twin bed, and removed the hatch to the crawl space. He’d pull the boxes of extra books from the attic, and bring them down for John to take advantage of in his search for material.

While John worked on that, Sherlock thought there might be time to teach Siger three-card Monte. It was always useful to be able to spot a traditional con.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Great Ormond Street Hospital Charity http://www.gosh.org/about-us/peter-pan


	4. December 4th.  Polar Express.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John discovers what Sherlock was up to.

“December 4th,” John Watson mumbled as he dragged his eyes open. Bed felt like more. His insane partner had finally gone to sleep, after playing his violin for hours into the early morning. Limbs were wrapped around the doctor, entrapping him in the bedclothes, unable to move without disturbing Sherlock. 

Well. John needed to urinate, and that meant cuddling would have to take a backseat to a full bladder. Not that John cuddled anyone except his children. No. Not at all. He kept that in mind as the blankets were unwrapped with difficulty from the inside. Kicking was required, though the man tried not to make violent contact with his spouse.

 _Mmmrrrm._ Sherlock turned over, pulling the remaining sage-green sheets and the forest-green duvet from John, drawing them with him to the far side of the bed. John took a moment to watch the dark curls settle on the custom-made pillow before turning to make his way to the loo. 

He got only a few steps before tripping over the first of several boxes in his way. His cry of pain, followed by a bitter, vehement curse, didn’t wake Sherlock, who began to snore slightly. 

The water closet called. Fiercely. And so he left examination of the cardboard cartons, ostensibly packed with cement, until after he paid heed to that call.

Well, apparently books could be mistaken for cement. Pulling on pajamas, John then hauled the first carton out to the sitting area, set the kettle on for tea, then went back to the bedroom for the second box. With a cup of tea, he sat on the floor to go through the contents of the first box.

“Daddy?” 

John looked up to smile at Ross standing in the doorway. She was wearing Siger’s old bee PJs. “Climbed out of bed again, Ross Love?”

With a nod, long curls of dark hair strayed all about her head and shoulders as she climbed up onto her father’s lap. Looking up at his face, Rosalind waited expectantly. 

“I’m looking through the books, Ross. Not all of these are right for you. Not yet, anyway. Your _Père_ seems to have found a number of books from my list, but there are more than Christmas books here.”

He gave a huffing sigh. “Let me see if there’s one that we can share, just us first. Then we’ll read with Miri Cat and Siger. Alright?”

He pulled a white rectangular picture book into view. The illustration was dark, of a train standing in a city street. “How about this one, Ross Love?” he said, opening to the text and beginning to read. “‘On Christmas Eve, many years ago, I lay quietly in my bed.’”

It was quiet. Sherlock Holmes observed that he was alone in bed. Granted, he had the entirety of the bedclothes wrapped about his body, which left John’s side of the queen-sized mattress denuded and cold. Blinking, he perceived that his transport was rested, despite only four hours of the eight that John insisted were necessary.

Yawning largely, the tall, lanky man dragged the sheet off the bed, wrapped it around his body, and set off to find his husband. The duvet plopped onto the floor behind him as he staggered momentarily around the empty floor that had formerly held the two cartons. He’d pulled what he thought John might appreciate from the multiple boxes upstairs in the crawl space. John must be organizing the volumes. All well and good, so long as tea was available.

Pulling the tail of his sheet through the doorway, he could hear John reading aloud from the sitting room. One of the children must be there as well. Not more than one; it was too quiet. 

John read with quiet expression: “‘At one time, most of my friends could hear the bell, but as years passed, it fell silent for all of them. Even Sarah found one Christmas that she could no longer hear its sweet sound. Though I've grown old, the bell still rings for me, as it does for all who truly believe.’”

Sherlock leaned against the wall at the entrance to the room, taking note of the quiet. John spoke again: “Well, what did you think of that one, Ross Love?”

Though he could not see Rosalind, Sherlock inferred that she was signing to John. The blond-haired man replied, “Yes, I liked the train as well. Yes, as I explained, Santa Claus is the same as _Père Noel_ , or Father Christmas.”

“You picked the most sentimental of the lot to start off with, John.” Sherlock slouched into the room and took his place, laid out on the sofa, legs dangling over the arm.

“Well, it was in the first box I stumbled over when I left bed this morning.” His husband raised an eyebrow before taking a long and apparently satisfying sip of English Breakfast. 

“Tea, John,” the prone detective directed.

“You want tea? What a surprise. Isn’t that a surprise, Ross?” John laid the picture book on the coffee table before hoisting his daughter onto her own feet. “I’m thinking you’d like some breakfast too, wouldn’t you, love? Hot chocolate?”

Sherlock watched as Ross nodded, and signed hopefully for a banana, then as John hauled himself to his feet and stretched before heading to the kitchen.

“John,” Sherlock called after him. “Hot chocolate, please. Instead of the tea.”

The clattering of crockery that had started silenced. A head of sand-coloured hair peered around the doorway. “What did you say, Sherlock?” John asked.

“Hot chocolate, please,” Sherlock repeated without his usual grumble about repetition. 

John Watson watched, smiling, as Ross climbed up onto her prone father on the couch. “Right,” he said, and went to make a larger pot of _chocolat chaud_. One big enough for the whole herd of elephants he could hear waking up in the nursery. He’d make the hot chocolate. And they’d all have _**The Polar Express**_ with their breakfast.


	5. December 5th.  The Littlest Angel.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock overhears Siger on the nursery monitor.

“Fear not,” Sherlock heard Siger say over the nursery monitor. They no longer called it a “baby” monitor, as Siger had pointed out that neither Miri Cat nor Ross Love were babies any longer. It was implied that, of course, Siger had not been a baby for a long while.

Where had the time gone? If Sherlock was at all sentimental, he would have said that his son had grown in the blink of an eye. But Sherlock was not sentimental, and he would have to allow John to make that statement instead.

Meanwhile, the child in question continued to make a statement of his own. “Fear not,” Siger repeated. “That is what the angels say.”

“Fear not!” Miranda copied her brother. Sherlock wondered if Rosalind knew the signs for the phrase. He did not hear her small voice involved in the conversation.

“Yes. Because we are not supposed to be afraid of angels. They are God’s messengers.” Sherlock Holmes wondered if he sounded quite that professorial when he was explaining his work to the children. Certainly Siger did not sound like John at this moment, though the boy could mimic either of them quite handily.

He wandered up the wooden stairs to the nursery, where the children had been playing quietly while he had spread crime scene photographs in the sitting room. Toddlers though they were, Miranda and Rosalind were quite well able to maneuver up and down the stairs safely. Ross could climb over the child gate at the top of the seventeen steps down to Mrs. Hudson’s, although she knew now that she was not to repeat that effort without an adult present.

They’d put Rosalind in Time Out for the first time after that. Where Sherlock would simply have entered his Mind Palace, Ross was wild at having to sit for the five minutes they’d had her on the bottom step. Siger did not like Time Out either, mostly because he was not allowed to speak or ask questions when he was on the step.

Sherlock peered around the doorway quietly, watching Siger pretending to be an angel. There was no knowing where he’d gotten his idea of what an angel looked like, or wore. One of Miri’s loose and baggy play dresses, white and gold, had been pulled tight over the boy’s larger torso. A circlet of twisted gold stars rested on the long, red curls that tumbled over Siger’s brow. 

Siger’s _Père_ loved those silken twists of red, but thought that perhaps it was time to cut his son’s hair. Still, he admitted that the crown of stars looked well on their crimson bed. While he was busy with those thoughts, Siger noticed his father in the doorway.

“ _Père!_ he cried. “Come in and see me be an angel for Miri and Ross!”

“An angel, Siger?” Sherlock asked. “Why are you being an angel? I thought you were a fierce dragon.”

“Angels can be fierce! I showed Daddy a stained glass window in a shop, and it had an angel that was very fierce. It was pointing at Adam and Eve, and telling them to go to Time Out!” his son explained.

“But didn’t I hear you tell your sisters that angels say, ‘Fear not’?” Sherlock could not stop himself from asking.

Siger nodded sharply, causing the golden circlet to slide down over his forehead. “Yes! Fear not! But you must go!”

Ah. “What other angels say ‘Fear not’?” Sherlock asked as he entered the room and gave his son the invitation to tell him all, settling into the rocking chair.

“Well, there was the angel who spoke to Mary when he was telling her that baby Jesus was coming. He said ‘Fear not’!,” Siger said after a small amount of thought.

Sherlock nodded, not quite recalling the event. Rosalind and Miranda were dressed up too, he realized. Ross was wearing a tunic that someone, probably Bert, had contrived from an old pillowcase, tied around her waist with the belt from John’s bathrobe. Miri wore pink leotards. Sherlock was having difficulty inferring what part of the Biblical story that she was portraying.

“And then,” Siger went on, “there was the angel who told Joseph to ‘fear not’. And the shepherds on the hill at night.”

Sherlock nodded again, irritated that he was repeating his response. “I see,” he said to change things up, before asking, “Why are you playing at being angels today?”

“Oh, I was tired of being a dragon. And Ross and Miri didn’t want to be dragons either,” Siger explained. “Will you please read to us, _Père_? A story about an angel? Miri wants to hear about the shepherds.”

“Do you?” Sherlock asked his pink-clad daughter. 

“Yes, because she is dressed as a sheep,” Siger explained. 

Sherlock could not see what, exactly, was sheeplike about the pink leotard. He’d learned to wait to ask about these things, because the answers were often long, rambling, and not even close to actual logic. What he did ask was, “And what is Rosalind?”

“The Shepherd,” Siger and Miri told him at once. Rosalind made a sign that must have meant shepherd, though it was not one that Sherlock knew.

Sherlock picked a book from the floor, looking with distaste at the cover. The illustration was bright blue, a star spangled sky, with a cherub portrayed as a young boy with a halo tipped crookedly over his brow. The boy was clutching a wooden box. Sherlock had scanned this book quickly in his search through the crawl space boxes. He'd determined this story to be mawkish, and with doubtful dogma. It was not the worst in the box, and so he had brought it downstairs for John to examine. He tossed it behind the rocker. “Bring me the book you would like to hear,” he instructed his son. 

The book, which was one of several scattered on the wooden floor, was procured, and three small children were perched in his narrow lap ready to hear the tale of the angel. Not a believer himself, Sherlock had promised John that cynicism would not escape his thoughts with regard to religion. 

“‘And there were shepherds living out in the fields nearby, keeping watch over their flocks at night. An angel of the Lord appeared to them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid.’”

“ _Non, Père_. ‘Fear not’!” Siger insisted.

Sherlock took the thread up again. “‘Fear not. I bring you good news that will cause great joy for all the people. Today in the town of David a Savior has been born to you; he is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign to you: You will find a baby wrapped in cloths and lying in a manger.’”

John Watson came up from signing paperwork with Alice Brown in the office to hear his atheist -- or at least agnostic -- spouse reading over the nursery monitor. While he loved that verse, he loved even more the voice reading it aloud. Smiling, he ran lightly up the stairs, no limp at all, to join his family.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Littlest Angel is a story by Charles Tazewell.


	6. December 6th.  The Life and Times of Santa Claus

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A visit to the Santa's Grotto.

“Today is Saint Nicholas Day. It is always on December 6th,” Siger announced to Mrs. Hudson. 

“Fancy that, Siger,” Mrs. Hudson said as she set a precisely-cut ham sandwich on her kitchen table in front of him. She hadn’t made the sandwich, or it would not have been quite so precisely made. The sandwich made a nice presentation next to the salt and vinegar crisps and the carrot sticks that finished off their meal.

Siger took a long drink of milk before eating a crisp. He had a pattern. Milk did not taste particularly well after a flavoured crisp, and so it was ingested after a bite of the ham sandwich, then came a crisp, then ham sandwich again. 

Mrs. Hudson took her place and picked up a neatly-made chicken salad sandwich. She never took the time to indulge herself in creating chicken salad with red grapes, cut celery, and pecans. She’d gotten fond of pecans in her time in the southern United States, and preferred them over the more common walnuts. Much as she loved baking, making casseroles, and feeding her tenants, chicken salad was one of those items she preferred to hire out for. 

A bite of a Corker’s sea salt and black pepper crisp was enjoyed, and then she took a sip of her white wine. “What do you have for me today, Siger?” she asked, as this was her weekly luncheon date with her adoptive grandson. He always shared a fact with her at lunch. Usually other times as well, but definitely when they had their little tradition.

“When biscuits brown, it is caused by the Maillard reaction. The amino acids and sugars in food react to the catalyst of heat and turn the food brown. And make it taste good. _Père_ says meat, and biscuits, and bread, and coffee. Daddy says beer, too.” After this exposition, Siger took an enormous bite of his ham sandwich. The mustard was brown too, but that was not part of a Maillard reaction, so he did not bring that into the conversation. 

“Fancy that.” Mrs. Hudson smiled as she said it. Dear Siger was so much like his father. Less brusque, though Sherlock had become a little less stroppy with others since the children had become part of his life. Of course, that process had started with John. “Sounds French,” she prompted.

“ _Louis Camille Maillard_.” Siger nodded, with his pronunciation sounding very French to Mrs. Hudson. “He was looking for something else. Daddy says he studied kidney diseases.”

Mrs. Hudson was used to what she considered non sequiturs from her tenants -- well, more than tenants. They were family, and much as she loved them, she had learned long ago that she didn’t need to understand everything they tended to say.

Siger continued, “It was for a case. But Daddy said they would not tell me about it until I am older. It is not on the Appropriate Scale for my age.”

Mrs. Hudson nodded. The Appropriate Scale was a measurement that Dr. John Watson had suggested for whatever Sherlock was studying that might have a negative effect on the children. This included, apparently, blood spatter patterns.

So Sherlock had gotten around that by allowing Siger to study Mud Spatter Patterns. This had lead to Other Spatter Patterns of varying viscosity. Siger had taken to it with interest, and Miri and Ross had enjoyed making the mess for the pair of them to try to read.

While Mrs. Hudson did not know precisely which case Siger was referring to, she strongly suspected it was the cannibalism one, and so did not make any comments on it. She was a strong advocate for the Appropriate Scale, though she would have called it the “Sherlock, it’s not decent” scale.

Siger was polishing off his meal quite well. It was a good thing that Mrs. Hudson had a lovely little spice cake for him for after. “I asked Daddy to put it in my Book For Later.” Siger gave her a grin that was strongly reminiscent of his father _Père_.

Alice Brown had given Siger a blank book on his last birthday. Siger had declared it was a Book For Later, and had his parents -- and really, any adult in the area -- make notations about things that Siger wanted to know about, but which subject was not on the Appropriate Scale for him at the moment.

Having worked his way through the ham sandwich, the crisps, and his milk, Siger now turned his attention to the small pile of carrot sticks. He enjoyed the sound, and made the most of it, so asking questions was frowned upon during the carrot intake.

Mrs. Hudson relaxed and enjoyed her Riesling, the superb chicken salad sandwich, and her crisps. Sometimes it was alright to let conversations lapse.

…

Bert Tran enjoyed visiting the Winter Wonderland in Hyde Park. He had taken dates here, and of course he’d come here many times each season with Siger, Miri, and Ross. The last time had ended hysterically, and Bert had photographic evidence. When Sherlock and John went anywhere with them, it was always more interesting. For one thing, Bert was able to look around more instead of continually watching the children. For another, things seemed to happen around Sherlock Holmes. Today Bert was pushing the double pram, which was empty now but for the nappy bag and a variety of lap rugs and toys. Siger had helped push for a while, but had run on ahead to explore. Not too far, of course. Even so, Bert kept a good eye on the boy. Not very busy today. Less of a crowd made it easier to follow Siger’s bright red hair.

John Watson carried Miri on his back. Hips, he had learned long ago, do not work as well for men as they do for women in the carrying of children. His daughter pointed past his ear toward whatever caught her interest, chattering in excitement over the people, the glitter, and the noise.

Rosalind was insisting on walking. Sherlock Holmes bent over oddly to hold her hand. John tried his best not to giggle. Both were massively stubborn. 

They’d attempted to prepare Miri for meeting Father Christmas this year. Last year she’d taken a fright and cried hysterically. Ross had yanked on the poor man’s beard, which was more or less permanently attached since it was his actual facial hair.

Sherlock was relieved to note that this year the Father Christmas had a beard spirit gummed - very badly - it had obviously been reattached at some point. Perhaps from the original Father Christmas. This was a substitute for the original. Obviously.

John wrinkled his nose at the disheveled state of this Father Christmas’s clothing. The red plush looked as though it had been rolled around in. They came here usually because of the decent quality of the Santa’s Grotto. John sniffed to see if he could detect booze. Just the faintest hint of whiskey from somewhere, but other than his clothing, this guy didn’t look like he’d been drinking. Well, good, because John would not have hesitated to report him, Christmas or no.

Bert was busy chatting up the Elf, who wore a short green holly leaf skirt, candy cane-striped stockings, and a tight little jacket of red felt patterned with snowflakes. She was wearing small jade earrings that didn’t go with the costume at all, and within a few moments he had gotten her to admit to being a Buddhist. She was studying Philosophy, but had taken the elf job for some quick cash.

Miranda went first, as they were uncertain whether or not she’d stay. She stared, silent. The worn and frizzy false beard was peeling just under Father Christmas’s red ear. Instead of talking to the man, Miri reached up to pull at the edge, instead. 

“No, no, little girl,” Father Christmas boomed, “Leave Santa’s beard alone!”

Miri’s turn was over quickly, and then Rosalind was placed upon Father Christmas’s lap. Ross stared as well. Then she signed instead of talking. No surprise there. But the Elf had rushed over to translate, casting an annoyed look at Father Christmas. Ross, they noticed, was telling Father Christmas the story of baby Jesus in as great detail as her signing allowed. Neither of her parents stepped in, as John was grinning at his girl, and Sherlock was smirking at the uncomfortable expression on the face of the costumed avatar of Christmas. The man kept trying to ask Ross what she wanted for Christmas. She would stop and look up into his face, then sign, “Yes.” and go back to telling him the story.

Then it was Siger’s turn. Siger leaned back upon the man’s lap to look up carefully. After examining the man he asked, “What do you feed your reindeer?”

Father Christmas opened and closed his mouth before offering, “Reindeer feed.”

That was not a satisfactory answer. “Siger went on, “Where do you get that?”

“Ho, ho, ho, my elves take care of that, little boy. Siger, was it?”

Siger nodded yes.

“You’re very interested in animals, eh? Going to be a zookeeper, son? You’d like a stuffed animal for Christmas? Or a fireman? Want a nice firetruck?” was the hearty attempt at getting back to the theme.

“I would like to play the violin,” said Siger evenly in the tone he used when an adult was being what Pere called “an idiot”.

Daddy said that there were some words that children should not use. Pere had told Siger that legally Siger, and Miri, and Ross would be children - minors - until they turned eighteen years of age. So Siger would have to wait fourteen and a half years before he could call this Father Christmas an idiot.

“The violin, eh? Lots of practice to that. I bet you’ll find something else more fun to do when you get to the upper forms.” This Father Christmas seemed certain.

Siger decided that this Father Christmas really was an idiot. He looked to Père in the hope that Père would behave badly. 

Père looked annoyed, but he was holding both Miri and Ross now, while Bert brought up the pram. “Right,” Daddy said moving forward, “Are you finished, Siger?” Daddy sounded annoyed. Siger weighed whether or not he wanted to let Daddy get angry and shout. 

“Yes, Daddy,” Siger pushed away from Father Christmas and hopped down. “I need the loo, Père.”

John, Sherlock, Bert, and the Elf girl all snickered at the startled expression on the dubious Father Christmas’s face at Siger’s last comment. 

“Alright, Siger, let’s find the loo,” Sherlock held out his hand and left Miri and Ross to John and Bert.

While waiting for Siger to finish up in the portable loo, Sherlock used his mobile to look up the company that had hired the unsatisfactory Father Christmas. Walking back, he listened to Siger chatter about reindeer, and the differences between the Father Christmas’s all about. His little voice was piercing, and Sherlock found himself hoping that the inept, dog owning thief that had been hired to impersonate Father Christmas could hear Siger’s comments. There were very few people walking about now. Odd, as Sherlock had expected this place to be packed.

“Oi! FrHolmes! What are you doing here?” came an unexpected challenge.

Sherlock Holmes examined Sergeant Donovan, who was clearly here in an official capacity, after being called in on her day off. Siger, who was almost always polite told her, “We are here to see Father Christmas. But he was unsatisfactory.”

Well, perhaps John would find that last bit impolite. Even when he agreed with the sentiment. Sherlock certainly did.

Sally Donovan stepped closer, keeping her voice down. “We’ve got the place cordoned off, and we’re evacuating everyone quietly. There’s one man left from the Parker gang, and we know he came in here. And we know he hasn’t left.”

Siger loved watching his Père think. Père stood straight up, like hair when you stood under the fibreglass slide at the park. “Sergeant Donovan, I believe you will find him masquerading as Father Christmas over in the Santa’s Grotto.”

Swinging Siger up into his arms, Sherlock Holmes strode off with Sally following quickly behind. 

There was a disturbance at the Santa’s Grotto. John was holding Miri, whose face was buried - snuffling and penitent - in her father’s awful Christmas jumper. Bert was buckling Ross into the pram, and the Elf was kicking at a wooden door behind Father Christmas’s throne. “It won’t open,” she shouted into the crack between the door and what looked like an unnaturally sturdy wall for such an impermanent structure.

Sergeant Donovan flashed her warrant card, “What’s going on here?” she asked with what John privately thought of as her very bossy voice.

“Father Christmas is stuck in the prop closet,” the Elf told her, torn between laughter and frustration. 

Inside the prop closet, there was a very unhappy man. William Watts had thought that joining up with Alfie Parker would bring money and an easy life. Rob a couple of banks with the boys, and take off to spend that loot in a quiet country town where no one was the wiser. Then Alfie had shot the security guard and things went straight to hell. Even if Will hadn’t fired the gun himself, that bullet had changed things.

Will counted himself very lucky when the coppers got the drop on the rest of the gang. Not that he’d turned them in. Nobody could prove that he did either. That burner phone was in the Thames. 

But then they’d shown up at the temporary flat he’d been hiding out in. And skiving off down the fire escape hadn’t helped, because there’d been police everywhere he looked after that. 

Surely nobody would think to look under a Santa Suit. William Watts had not believed in Father Christmas for decades, but he was willing to give the saint a chance if it would keep him out of gael. Simple enough. He’d found the closest Santa’s Grotto, followed the old man when he’d snuck off for a quick nip at the bottle he had under his costume. Easy enough to rap the guy on the head, tape him up and leave him in the bushes at the edge of the park.

He’d had to talk quick when the Elf (what was her name, Jolie? June?) had arrived, very late for her shift. She’d asked where Sam was, but it was easy enough to tell her that Sam was in hospital from a car smash. 

Watts had had a hell of a time getting the beard to stick on though. And sitting and listening to brats demand toys and treats was not his idea of a good time. It had been hours. His throat was starting to hurt from all the “Ho, ho, ho”ing.Thank the lord none of the little bastards had pissed on his lap. That last group though. Baby Jesus and reindeer. And that little girl pulling at the bloody beard. When they’d finally cleared off he asked the Elf where Sam kept the spirit gum, as he needed a refresher. It wouldn’t do to have his face uncovered where any cop could see it.

“In the props closet, behind the throne. Be careful, the door sticks. Sam got locked in there yesterday,” she said snottily over her shoulder before going back to flirting with that Asian kid who’d been with the gay guys. Not that he had a problem with gays. But their kids had been pretty odd with their staring at him. 

William yanked hard to get the wooden door open, holding the sagging beard to his face. Pulling the chain to turn on the bare bulb above he began to look for a bottle, a jar, anything marked “spirit gum”. He was damned jumpy. Hearing a shuffling behind him, he turned around.

There was that little blonde girl, the one who’d been pulling at his beard. And she was pushing at the door. Closing it. “NO!” William Watts shouted and threw himself at the slab of wood. Too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Life and Adventures of Santa Claus was written by L. Frank Baum (author of The Wizard of Oz)
> 
> http://www.crispnation.com/the-crisp-list.html


	7. December 7th.  Gift of the Magi.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Siger is old enough to want to give presents. How does a 3 year old manage that?

“Father, how will I give you and daddy and Miri and Ross presents?”

Sherlock Holmes was forced to jolt his brain to a stop from its previous course. An unexpected question, certainly, from his eldest child. Father instead of Père? Sherlock said, _”S'il te plaît, donne-moi un moment, Siger, pendant que je pense à ta question,” absently._

The portion of his mind Palace - the visualization to which he retreated - was of the nursery room he had inhabited so very long ago. It was a solitary space in his mind, Mycroft was largely absent - as he had been after being sent to public school. Sherlock took a moment to consider the plain wooden doorway - shining with perpetually fresh paint - behind which the Nanny maintained her room. The paint sealed the door. Not in the manner of an imprisoned threat. More a busy ant that had cordoned its area off to go about it’s own business. Sherlock found it telling that the picture was of an ant, which he found largely useless, and not a bee.

Moving to sit in an antique rocking chair that he knew was actually resting in Mycroft’s over decorated house, the consulting detective drew long fingers along the brightly painted ridgeline of his pirate ship dolls’ house. So. Siger was looking for self autonomy. How should they handle this first intentional foray into providing for loved ones. It was, he thought uncertainly, to be encouraged.

“Of course, we’re encouraging this, Sherlock!” Shorter, pugnacious, John Watson’s avatar was bouncing on the balls of his feet, ready to head out for a case in worn blue jeans, a blue and green plaid shirt, and his grey windcheater.

“I am not arguing the point,” Sherlock said with more certainty.

“And you are,” was emphasized, before “going to discuss this with me in person, yes?”

Holmes scoffed at the reminder. 

“So?” John raised a sand-colored illusory eyebrow at his partner. “Siger’s waiting. What are you going to tell him?”

“What are my options? This is not my area.” Here in the Mind Palace it was allowed for Sherlock to be helpless.

Rocking from heel to toe, John set his arms behind his back in a military posture. “You could tell him we’ll front him the money to buy gifts.”

“Would it not be better to give Siger a fixed amount, and work with him to establish a budget?”

“Not exactly,” John fixed him with a gimlet eye. “Siger is three years old, Sherlock.”

“I had thought that Alice Brown could supervise that aspect of his education. It would be interesting to observe and time his mathematical experiences.” This was said simply. No need to manipulate in this space.

John sighed. Alice Brown appeared next to him, a doubtful expression on her face. 

“Oh, come on, Alice Brown,” Sherlock exploded, “You were a teacher!”

“Not any longer,” was pointed, if steady. “I am your business manager, and have a busy time with all of the paperwork you refuse to do.”

“And then there’s the issue of developmental readiness,” John added.

“I did not have an allowance until I was older,” Sherlock admitted.

John seated himself carefully on the small, child’s bed - all crisp white sheets and a piratical crimson wool blanket. He bounced a few times. “How did your parents manage that?”

Sherlock leaned back in the rocker. “Mummy had an account book. No computer. I was told what amount I had to spend. So much for Mycroft, so much for Father. So much for each person - Family, of course, had a larger amount than that set aside for the servants, or for other individuals. Should we choose to give gifts to others outside of the household. I do not believe Mycroft or I were much given to gift giving otherwise.”

Siger appeared, clambering up onto the bed and into John’s lap. John looked into the uplifted, snub-nosed face. “Perhaps,” Sherlock said, “It would be best to discuss this later this afternoon or evening.”

Then Sherlock Holmes was looking down at the bright red curls of his offspring, who was building a rainbow coloured structure with MagnaTiles. 

“Time?” Sherlock asked.

Siger handed his Père the mobile that had been in the adult’s pocket. While Siger could not tell time yet, they’d discovered he was more than capable of accessing the timer app on Sherlock’s mobile. Ten minutes. Not an extended period.

“Siger?” Sherlock waited until those sparkling eyes met his. “I will discuss this with Daddy, and then we will include you in the final decision.”

“Okay, Père.” Siger went back to his magnetic creation.

After a moment of observation, Sherlock sat down cross-legged next to his son and watched his movement, working idly to predict which piece Siger would need next.

Siger found two pieces that were of opposing polarities, and repelled rather than attracted. Reversing one piece he continued building. Long, thin adult hands kept up with smaller, skinny fingers, passing blocks and tiles as the edifice grew to include materials of varying magnetic properties. 

A quick look from beneath red haired brows, and a tiny hand was held out and receive an absently handled mobile. Siger tapped the app, placed the mobile phone on the floor, and went back to his own construction.

John Watson finished reviewing the paperwork Alice Brown had handed him. “All good, Alice?” he twinkled his blue eyes at the office manager from force of habit.

“All good, Dr. Watson,” Alice Brown tended toward the formal in the presence of the courier from the MET. This particular courier was, well, particular. She never left without the required paperwork, signature, or case files. To be truthful, Alice Brown believed that Constable Woodring had a rather large crush on the good doctor. Which was amusing. Women tended to ignore Sherlock Holmes’s rudeness in favor of those model worthy cheekbones and dark curls. Alice Brown knew both men too well to be enamored of either. Neither was much like her beloved husband - still greatly missed. Alice Brown had no desire to find a replacement, or a new companion. Outside of her job, she sank herself into church and choir, and found happiness enough.

A small, friendly smile toward her employer finished the conversation so far as Alice Brown was concerned.

Doctor John Watson took the seventeen steps up two-at-a-time. The sitting room was crowded. Albert Tran leaned in Sherlock’s chair. Long booted legs were crossed and resting on the coffee table, and Bert was deeply engrossed in an obstetrics article.

Off duty now, he’d noticed Sherlock’s immersion into his Mind Palace, and was hanging out until John arrived upstairs to take over the twins.

Miri and Ross were perfectly happy flying the rubber bees around the sofa and under John’s chair. Siger, meanwhile, had built a monument larger than he was tall, and was still receiving items from his father, which he then incorporated into the massive structure. Looking closer - “Observing,” John thought dryly - there were a number of non-toy pieces involved.

“Time?” he asked Siger.

A bright grin, and the boy handed his Père’s mobile to his daddy.

“Twenty minutes,” John said thoughtfully. He quirked a smile at his son. “Any idea what Père’s thinking about?” he asked.

Fiery red curls flew as Siger shook his head. “I was playing with my MagnaTiles, see?”

And John admired the sparkling towers of magnets, sturdy walls of clear varnished hardwood architectural blocks, primary colored wooden shapes, a garden of pens and pencils, and finally, an avenue created by piling John’s paperback thriller novels together with a flooring of ripped and discarded - decidedly not gory - crime scene photographs.

“Nice job, Siger Sweet,” and John leaned down to kiss the top of that curly head.

Siger nodded, engrossed in moving Lego Pirates stealthily in search of adventure within the environs of his imaginative world. _Perhaps_ , John thought, _Siger would be ready for the E. Nesbit books soon_.

Moments later Sherlock Holmes was retrieved from the flickering, fluorescent lit cellar of a crime scene scenario by a shrill shriek of rage after Ross brought her trainer clad food deliberately down onto Siger’s building like a monster from an old film. Miri threw herself into the fray as well, collapsing the avenue of books on to the pirates.

Smooth as digital, three adults moved in to separate the squalling mob. Calming, cleanup, and tea came next, followed by a walk down the block (minus Bert, who was invited, but had a date) to work off an excess of energy before bedtime. 

Cold drizzle greyed the air around the perambulator, bringing a flush to excited cheeks as Miri and Ross chattered to each other. Ross still used her fingers mostly, but threw a few words into the mix. 

Siger walked with his hand in John’s, singing softly. It was a melody of his own devising, that included lyrics made up of “rain” and “sky” and “cold”, “Watson” and Holmes”.

“Siger is old enough to want to shop for gifts,” the tall pram motivator stated.

“Alright,” John Watson said equably. 

“He has requested his own money to spend,” came next.

John hummed. “How much do you think would be enough for a three-year-old to spend?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” Sherlock offered, “we should discuss with Siger what he would like to give to his sisters. And others.”

“Sounds good,” John nodded, “So long as he doesn’t plan on getting them ponies.”

“Ponies?” Siger broke off his song and piped up hopefully.

“Siger,” his Père gave the little boy a look that was obviously not severe, “Where would we keep ponies in the flat?”

Siger gave that some thought. “Uncle Mycroft’s guest room?”

His daddy laughed. “That’s not in our flat, Siger sweet.”

“I would like to think about it, Daddy,” Siger decided, before going back to his song. Which now contained the additional words “pony” and “Uncle Mycroft’s house.”

John Watson hummed. Sherlock caught the blue eyes gazing sideways at his own, currently grey ones. He hummed in agreement.

Their story that night did not catch the children’s interest. _**The Gift of the Magi**_ was switched out, and a re-reading of _**A Visit from Saint Nicholas**_ performed in its place.

Snug in flannel nightwear, tucked into narrow beds that had taken the place of Miranda’s and Rosalind’s cribs, the toddlers soon fell asleep. Siger sat on his Daddy’s lap in the rocking chair, bare feet ruched up on John’s blue denim clad knees.

Sherlock was stretched out on Siger’s bed, long legs folded down over the end of it, his stockinged feet at rest on the wooden floor below. When “Happy Christmas to all, and to all a good night” was read, Siger commented consideringly, “Daddy, may I get reindeer for Miri Cat and Ross Love?”

Caught unaware, Sherlock’s snicker was forcibly changed to a cough. It fooled no one, as Siger’s admonitory “Père, I am serious!” revealed.

John’s hug enveloped his boy and the oversized picture book. “Perhaps not a live reindeer, Siger. They don’t really come in a miniature size.”

A disappointed “Oh,” was followed by, “We will figure it out, right Daddy?”

“Yes. yes, we will. We have time.” John gave him another hug, and received a kiss in return before his son climbed down from the rocker and attempted to pull his bedcovers down while still underneath his father. 

“Père, I’m ready for bed now!”

Rising, his father set about the business of tucking Siger in, while John shelved Saint Nicholas’s visit. Kisses were exchanged, and bestowed upon those already asleep. 

_**Gift of the Magi**_ stowed under his arm, John followed Sherlock down the stairs to the sitting room. The rejected book was stored on the top shelf, out of the way.

“It’s for the best, John,” came from Sherlock as he turned on the nursery monitor.

“What is? John asked as he set the kettle to boil.

“Siger will understand the complexities of human behavior more when he is older. Then he and I can dissect the motivations of the characters. You will translate those into a real life experience to make it more understandable for me. Siger will surprise both of us with his understanding. Appropriate for Christmas, don’t you think?”

John’s response when they’d settled on the couch with their tea was most satisfactory.


	8. December 8th.  Christmas Baking Book for Children

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It was an accident!

The entire household of two hundred twenty one B, with the addition of Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade and his romantic partner Mycroft Holmes, stood in the sitting room of Mrs. Hudson’s first floor flat and watched the billowing cloud of white puffing toward them down the hall from the kitchen.

Rosalind and Miranda provide the soundtrack of weeping and wailing over the faint brangle of Christmas carols flowing forth from Mrs. Hudson’s laptop, opened to her holiday recipe file. Alice Brown, her Tenniel headband slipping back over her shoulder length brown hair, was attempting to carry a struggling Ross from the scene. Albert Tran, held an equally distraught Miranda, and was trying to edge his way out through the crowd. 

Siger Hamish Holmes stood in front of the pack of people watching the white cloud. His small face was grim. His red rimmed eyes, made all the more vivid by thick, long, red lashes under only slightly darker eyebrows, brimmed with tears. 

Martha Hudson, torn between hysterical laughter and weeping, gave a hacking cough into the pine tree ornamental dish cloth that her sister had sent from Norway. She held it in her white, flour dusted hand. Newly trimmed, and frosted only the day before, her hair was adrift with unbleached white as well.

Behind the main pack, Greg Lestrade leaned, heedless of the measure of damage he was doing, against the three-piece navy blue suit clad Mycroft, wiping at his eyes. The Detective Inspector’s face was red with laughter, the joy lines crinkling at the corners of his sparkling eyes. Mycroft’s own face showed a curious blankness. It would hide his fear of contamination by the oncoming cloud from all eyes but those of his younger brother. It was inevitable. His bespoke suit would soon be covered in unsightly dots of flour. The black cloth of his ubiquitous umbrella twitched in his cold, pale hand.

Doctor John Hamish Watson stood with his hands on Siger’s thin shoulders. The doctor’s mouth was open - possibly in wonder, or astonishment, probably not in rage, as giggles were threatening to escape. It might even be that his mouth was open to prevent the laughter from appearing outright. 

John’s partner stood beside him. Sherlock Holmes, tall, slender, fashionably dressed in what had been a black suit with an aubergine broadcloth shirt, sported a face of absolute innocence. 

John Watson could just hear Sherlock’s words over the uproar, for all that his lips were not noticeably moving. “Let it snow! Let it snow! Let it snow!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Christmas Baking Book for Children by Abigail Wheatley.


	9. December 9th.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft's ideas for Christmas presents for the kids.

Mycroft Holmes, tall, long noised, and ginger haired, made a decision. “You’re going to take them where?” Greg Lestrade had laughter in his voice.

“Our gifts to Siger, Miranda and Rosalind will be Christmas outfits,” Mycroft had more patience with repetition than his socially awkward baby brother.

Greg had never expected to laugh quite so much in his relationships with any of the Holmes family. After the advent of Siger and his siblings into their lives, yes he had been open to the idea, but wary. Dating Mycroft had given Greg an insight into the man’s dry sense of the absurd. That shared humour often made him laugh, as he was chuckling now.

Mycroft Holmes had loved many things about Greg Lestrade from the first. There was the wild boy silver hair that Mycroft still itched to comb with his fingers, even after all of this time. There was the unrehearsed and open laughter at the comical vagaries of life. There was the beauty of the man’s mature, but boyish face, of his form. Finally, there was the quick wit, the innate wisdom, and the willingness the detective showed when doggedly working his way through to the end of a knotty problem. Lestrade’s intelligence might not be the quicksilver firing of neurons that were part and parcel of Mycroft’s and Sherlock’s genetic inheritance, but it had the tough fibre necessary for digging out an answer buried under masses of misinformation and distraction.

Mycroft Holmes did not get offended when Gregory Lestrade laughed, even when it was at this minor member of the British Government. Mycroft reveled in that joy. And sometimes he released his control enough for a smile, or a small laugh himself.

Tonight Mycroft was dressed extremely “down” in a dark green polo shirt and casual trousers. He rested on a tall, cloth padded kitchen stool twirling the stem of a wine glass, watching the golden swirl of an inexpensive but flavorful vintage from the stock of a close, German acquaintance. 

Garlic, warming with good olive oil in the saute pan brought sharp memories of his own subdued laughter, simple meals, and romantic days with little to no thought of The Work. Fat, grey striped prawns joined the garlic and glistened their way to a savory pink. A twist of the pepper mill rained black, white, pink, and green pepper into the pan as the prawns were flipped to season them evenly. Bright green broccoli florets, trimmed to excruciating exactness by the chef’s assistant steamed quietly near a pan of linguini, strained and waiting for a final rinse of boiling water from the kettle to heat it up.

Mycroft’s stomach growled embarrassingly, to be answered antiphonally by Greg’s as the detective inspector turned chef gave the prawns a final toss. Tonight they were eating in the kitchen. Anna was away for an extended Christmas holiday, and the pair were taking full advantage of her absence.

Greg stopped chuckling and took a long swallow of his lager. With practiced hands he managed the pasta, and soon the broccoli and prawns were seated in a soft linguini bed. The garlic and olive oil were deglazed from the pan with a splash of wine from Mycroft’s bottle. The resultant sauce drizzled over prawns, broccoli, linguini and all.

Silence warmed the kitchen for a bit as the meal received appropriate attention. 

When Greg’s stomach allowed him to pause, he swallowed and said, “Seriously, Mycroft? You’re not setting them up with bespoke baby clothes are you? Because I don’t expect us to go down that road in nine months.”

“There is quality children’s clothing that does not require the investment of bespoke,” Mycroft said before refreshing himself with a sip of wine.

“So, no Rachel Riley, or Pepa and Company?” Greg smirked at his partner.

Mycroft sighed. “Possibly. I had thought a small boutique that was not so well known.”

Greg took a bite. “You’re thinking dresses for the girls, right? A suit for Siger?”

Nodding, Mycroft took another bite from his own plate. 

“Nothing awful and pink, Mycroft?” Greg teased.

“I had thought,” Mycroft said as he picked up his glass for a sip, “that we would go with Christmas colours. I would not shop with the girls together. They would select their outfits without knowing what the other has chosen.”

Greg nodded. “I’m all for not dressing them like twins in complementary colours. What do you think John and Sherlock will say about your idea?”

Mycroft stiffened. “I expect to hear no end of rude commentary from them. In the end they will comply, if only because they know that I can afford this. And that it will bring their children pleasure.”

“I expect,” Greg echoed Mycroft, “That John will think that Sherlock’s got the height of fashion sense.”

Not a laugh at that one, but a slight smirk. “Sherlock has his own inimitable style,” commented the older brother. “He has learned not to dress Siger in colours that suit his own colouring.”

“How long did that take?” asked Greg, who admittedly did not have an eye for clothing. 

Eyes twinkling, Mycroft told him, “Six months.”

Greg thought about it. “The red hair?”

“The red hair,” Mycroft sighed. If only he’d his mother’s eye for shades that went with what Mycroft saw as the family’s burden.

“You know I love your hair, Mycroft. I wouldn’t change it for its weight in gold.”

“Nor I yours,” Mycroft eyed the thick silver on Greg’s head. His manicured hands twitched.

“There you go, then. Get your practice in for when our baby arrives. Because I don’t think we’ll have much leisure time to shop for our own.” Even though they’d already started looking through catalogs, thinking of a day in the future when purchases would be made for their own little boy or girl. 

“Well, here’s to coming up with something for the kids that won’t make John explode with rage, and Sherlock faint like a Victorian heroine!” Greg lifted his lager, and Mycroft tapped his wine glass gently.

Perhaps it wasn’t such a bad idea, after all.


	10. December 10th.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes children are very quiet when they get out of bed.

Darkness. It was not time to get up. Not yet. The babies were sleeping. Siger could hear the soft murmur of Miri and Ross as they slept in their cribs across the room. Gentle, regular breaths, the rustle of bedclothes as they moved slightly, Siger liked listening to them at night when he was getting ready for bed. It helped him to fall asleep.

Siger knew that those sounds could be heard downstairs on the monitors in the sitting room and his parents’ bedroom. If he started to sing, even quietly, someone would come upstairs to check on him. Siger sometimes knew they were standing out on the landing listening at the nursery door. Right now he could hear sounds rising up the steps from the sitting room.

His parents were downstairs. Bedclothes swooshed, but quietly, as he lifted them back. Sliding his feet into soft slippers, Siger ignored his bathrobe, he was warm enough in his flannel pjs. He practiced walking as _Père_ had taught him, very quietly, missing the creaking steps as he made his way downstairs. Daddy and _Père_ were in the living room. They must have finished the case, and Bert had gone downstairs.

Settling down on the bottom step Siger could peek at his parents. _Père_ always told him to observe. It was fun, sometimes, to watch them when they didn’t know he was looking. A song was playing over speakers. Daddy was sitting in his big, soft chair laughing up at _Père_. _Père_ was dressed like Daddy - his shirt was of plaid flannel, much like Siger’s pajamas, but in bright blue. Sometimes Daddy wore flannel, but he did like to wear checked shirts, and that was close to plaid. And _Père_ was wearing jeans. Siger could see the blue denim because _Père_ was dancing across the floor. His feet, in brown boots that had heels and pointed toes, made noises on the wood, and less clompy sounds on the carpet. They were pretty, the boots, - stitched with loops and swirls. But Siger had never seen them before, so they weren’t from _Père_ ’s closet.

Daddy was wearing a button up shirt, a jumper, and slacks. He wasn’t dressed like _Père_. So _Père_ must be in disguise. _Père_ was also singing about reindeer, “Coming home from our house Christmas Eve,” in an accent that Siger had not heard before. It was English, but not from London - _Père_ was teaching him ‘dialects’, though Siger could not speak in them yet. Not like he spoke French or _Nam Viet_.

 _Père_ was pulling Daddy from his chair, and using his odd dialect was telling him to “keep up, Johnny” as he danced Daddy around the clear part of the sitting room in time to his song. So silly. 

“What dance is this?” Daddy sounded breathless.

“Why, ‘aven’t ya danced a two-step before?” _Père_ asked as he swept Daddy around the room. 

“Sherlock, you taught me every ballroom dance I know,” Daddy reminded _Père_.

 _Père_ laughed and said, “Really, John, a two-step is not a ballroom dance.”

Daddy was smiling that big smile, and said, “You’re leading, Sherlock. Any dance where you lead is a ballroom dance.”

Siger wondered if they’d teach him how to dance if he got up from the step and went in to the music. He yawned suddenly, and thought that perhaps he would ask them to teach him tomorrow morning. His climb up the “wooden hill” was just as quiet as his descent, and he climbed back into bed and catching up his stuffed violin, he cuddled it under the covers.


	11. December 11th

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miri has a liking for Hello Kitty.

It had not, of course, been that easy.

First of all, Greg refused to go. “Mycroft, my presence will completely change the dynamic. I support the idea. I’ll even take the other kids to the museum or a train ride or to the park or whatever while you’ve got one shopping with you. That way we can give John and Sherlock and the others a break. But you’re going to have this time with your nieces and nephew all to yourself.”

“Are you saying that two men shopping with a toddler for a Christmas dress will presuppose homosexuality, and therefore change the quality of service?” 

Greg huffed a laugh. “Mycroft, one man shopping with a toddler for a Christmas dress will definitely give the impression that you’re gay. Regardless of the right or wrong of it. And yes. That might change the way that the salesclerks work with you. You know that. Not really my point. You can handle that. Bloody terrifying, the thought of any clerk giving you sass. And receiving a well earned smack down.”

An elegant eyebrow lifted. Obvious that. Encouraging Greg to continue. “This is your time to spend with the children. It’s an opportunity for them to see a side of you that they might know is there - certainly Siger will - but have not really had the chance to interact with. It’s a good thing. Go. Have fun.”

Then there had been the interaction with Sherlock and John. “Mycroft, you’re not to bring her home in any caricature or version of Princess Charlotte’s clothing. No ‘pop culture’ trash either,” had been Sherlock’s most offensive response.

John, looking up from his laptop said, “No shorts.”

Mycroft elected Miranda as the more pliable of the toddlers, and so would serve as the test case. He really did not do ‘leg work’, and so arriving at a boutique - ushering the tiny blonde into the shop, had its own issues. Car seat notwithstanding, Miranda had been mobile, and quite talkative all morning. Yet, when Mycroft held the steel and glass door for her politely, Miri grabbed his trousered leg and hid her face in it, causing a blockage in traffic.

Scooping her up onto his arm - the one without an umbrella - was awkward. Greg always managed these events well. His absence was enormously noticeable.

Examining samples, attempting to get his niece to look at dresses at first, that was painful. The sales clerk was rather good, actually. It took some effort, but eventually Miranda stole a glance at the cheerful young woman. A showcase of hair bows and ties captivated the child. Soon after that moment, the chatter began.

Mycroft had selected this time period because the shop had fewer customers generally in the early morning. They had the full attention of the manager and the clerk. More than they needed, and Mycroft made plain his preference for the clerk who was chattering away with Miranda. 

Unfortunately, the item that most attracted his niece’s eye was a pink “Hello Kitty” party dress. “Hand smocked,” the clerk, Lucy by her nametag, told them.

Dreadful. Still, it left Mycroft some time to examine other offerings while Miri was distracted. 

Emerald green, scarlet, royal blue, gem tones were big at this time of year. There were black velvet skirt sets. Plaids. No, there would be no plaids. The quality of the fabric was good. Mycroft enjoyed the feeling of the silks and brocades, the plush catch of the velvet against his fingertips.  
He selected two for his niece to choose from. A deep purple, and a dark, no, more dusty rose, both in velvet, fully lined. Indicating a need to escape from the “Hello Kitty” in favor of the items he had selected, Lucy had deftly distracted Miranda with a chance to sit in a child sized chair near the mirror.

“Miranda,” Mycroft sat in the adult version and leaned down to show the toddler the dresses, “Please look at these dresses.”

“Pink!” announced his niece, and poked a finger into the dusty rose velvet. She had no interest whatsoever in the deep purple.

By the time that grey ribbed tights, grey patent leather t-strap shoes, and complementary headband and bows had been selected, Miranda was out of her chair and crawling about on the floor. Mycroft had forgotten the bag of toys in the back of the car. They did manage to get her to try on the grey shoes eventually.

Two last purchases. Mycroft contented himself with a sage green woolen coat for over the dress. And, just because he could indulge her, Miranda left the shop wearing a brightly obnoxious “Hello Kitty” bow in her blonde hair. Pop culture indeed.


	12. December 12th.

Rosalind proved a joy to shop with. She didn’t speak. That wasn’t the joyful part. She was intensely interested in everything that Mycroft shared with her. It reminded him of Sherlock as a little boy.

Returning to the previous shop, the government official felt comfortable that he had an idea of what styles and fabrics were available now. However, Rosalind showed no interest whatsoever in the Hello Kitty bow. Unfortunately, she did have a predilection for plaid.

Mycroft rather congratulated himself on disguising his disgust. Until Rosalind solemnly handed him a dress in a horrid red, black, and green Christmas tartan, then giggled - much like her father, John Watson, when he thought it was just himself and Sherlock. 

Ross laughed out loud when Mycroft gasped and mimed horror. The shopgirl, Lucy again, and not a part of their game, smiled blandly to cover her confusion.

“Rosalind,” Mycroft lifted her up, “I think that you might like this yellow outfit over here.” He carried her over to the tiny mannequin dressed in a plush buttercup yellow dress. 

The toddler examined the outfit seriously. Bringing the skirt to her cheek she smiled at the thick fabric. “Soft,” she signed. 

“Would you like to try it on? To see if it fits?” Mycroft asked.

Yes, Rosalind would, and yes, it did. Looking into the mirror in the yellow dress, her brown hair done up in pigtails, she curtseyed as Mycroft had shown her and Miranda months ago. 

That settled, Lucy helped him to select ivory, ribbed stockings, small ivory patent leather mary jane shoes, and a navy blue wool coat for over top. Then they took time to choose hair ribbons to match. Mycroft found small yellow roses on several ribbons, and signed “Roses for a Rose” before showing them to Rosalind.

The problem was that Rosalind did not want to take the yellow dress off for the clerk to pack it up. Mycroft turned his niece to face him. “Ross,” he intoned, “She must pack up our purchases. We will take them home to show Miri, Siger, and your fathers.”

Then, since he had indulged Miri, Mycroft bought Rosalind a large bow of her own choice. She picked, of course, plaid.


	13. December 13th.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An interlude.

John Watson did not have much time to be introspective. There was his work at the surgery, his traipsing about after his amazing partner, taking care of the items that their office manager brought to his attention, and raising three very bright, very active children. That was aside from being married to said amazing partner.

Now, though, John was sitting stretched out on the couch, unable to move. The children were finally upstairs asleep. No sounds of movement. Sherlock, after refusing to sleep for days, was draped over John, fast asleep. John was debating whether or not it was worth waking his partner to drag him to bed. It would be more comfortable. But right now John found himself trapped, and entertaining himself by running fingers through the dark curls of his slightly snoring consulting detective.

This was not what he had thought his long term life was going to be like. Not at all. It wasn’t even what he’d thought life with a wife would be. Not that living with a man in a spouse’s role was what he’d expected either. Some things, though, were exactly as expected. John had just assumed that neither he nor Sherlock would be romantic. That was a thing that one did for women. Wasn’t it?

One thing that John had heard from his patients, and that consistently from men and women, was that children were the ultimate form of birth control. Well, the men tended to use a more colourful phrasing. John had to admit that this aspect of parenting was true. 

Everyone was tired. There was a lot of crabbiness from their normally sweet and loving children. John had given the call early, “Time for bed everyone!”

Sherlock caught hold of his arm on the way up the stairs. “I’ll be waiting for you here. We should spend some 'quality time' together,” he’d said quietly, dropping his baritone and cocking an eyebrow suggestively. 

John was quite onboard with that. He was reading a book that Jack Watson and Mary Morstan had sent the children. Only one chapter tonight! _Christmas in the Big Woods_. There were no complaints from Siger, who pulled his plushy violin close when John tucked him in. Miri and Ross were already asleep and snoring gently as John checked the nursery monitor, flipped the light switch, and closed the nursery door gently. 

The sitting room lights were low when he got downstairs, and the room was twinkling with the fairy lights John had hung two weeks gone by. A fire was burning cheerfully in the grate to add to the atmosphere, and there were tumblers of amber liquid waiting on the coffee table. Sherlock was setting the stereo on - instrumental and orchestral for background. 

John kicked off his shoes, and stretched out on the couch. “This is nice,” he said, reaching for the glass of what he suspected would be from the bottle of excellent scotch that Mycroft had given them ages ago. Yes, upon sipping it, John thought it really wonderful scotch. 

Sherlock gave him a grin before taking a swig from his own tumbler. Wrinkling his nose he offered, “Scotch is not my drink. But this is not as offensive as some of the whiskey you’ve brought into this flat.”

“I’ll drink yours,” John offered.

“Unnecessary,” Sherlock said and took the rest in another swig before flopping onto the couch with John. Or rather into John’s arms. Long legs dangled over the arm, but his head fit quite comfortably against his blogger’s shoulder. John’s right arm held him close, while the left endeavored to bring the slopping alcohol to John’s lips. 

John had given up the fight. The tumbler went back to the coffee table, and his left arm wrapped around his infuriating partner. 

“You radiate heat nicely,” Sherlock said quietly, “almost as much as the fireplace.” 

John laughed as quietly, then told the man, “You give the nicest compliments.”

“Facts, John, are not compliments. Though I do appreciate how warm you are in bed.” After a moment he continued, “And that you don’t kick me when my feet are cold and I put them against you to warm them up.”

“Well, I do love you, you know. That’s part and parcel of it all,” John told him before delivering a kiss to the top of his brilliant, but unconventional head.

“Mmmm,” was the reply. They said nothing for a while, basking in the fireplace heat, and listening to the night sounds around them - the creaking of the old house, the traffic noises from the street, the soft sounds of children sleeping upstairs.

And, John realized, from in the sitting room as well. Sherlock snuffled, shifted to get more comfortable, and began to snore softly in the circle of John’s arms. 

Ah well. Time enough to get his genius to bed in a bit. For now, John might not be able to move, but he decided that he really didn’t want to. And while this might not have been what he was expecting in a settled life, he was really very happy with what he had.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> apologies for the tense changes. These will be corrected when I have a little bit more time.
> 
> The Little House Christmas Treasury is by Laura Ingalls Wilder, and contains the chapters from each book dealing with Christmas. John read "Christmas in the Big Woods" from the first book, Little House in the Big Woods.
> 
> My personal favorite chapter is "Mr. Edwards Meets Santa Claus".


	14. December 14th. Treasure Island

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft and Greg take Siger out for tea, and clothes shopping.

Planning for his day out with Siger, Mycroft asked the boy to choose a restaurant for lunch. “Will Uncle Gregory have lunch with us, Uncle Mycroft?” It was a joy to hear how well Siger’s pronunciation had improved.

“Would you like that?” Mycroft asked.

Siger nodded. “Yes, please, Uncle Mycroft.”

Mycroft approved of the manners. Though he had often wondered where exactly Siger had learned them. 

“Well, then,” he told Siger, “I will invite Uncle Greg. What would you like to eat for luncheon?”

“Cream tea? Said Siger hopefully.

“Brown’s?” Mycroft offered.

“Yes! Hummus!” Siger crowed.

“How is this a cream tea?” Greg muttered to his partner later as they sat down to miso infused salmon sandwiches on spinach bread, or hummus and avocado wrapped in beetroot colored crepes. 

“Siger’s choice,” Mycroft pointed out gently. He had, of course, been the one to introduce the boy to this particular establishment.

The second course arrived with fresh fruit - blueberries, melons, pineapple. “What is this on the fruit?” Greg asked suspiciously.

“Honey and yogurt!” Siger told him.

“Honey and chia seed yogurt,” elaborated Mycroft. 

“You two are a bit weird,” Gregory Lestrade pointed at them with his fork. He was mollified when the top tier arrived. There were raspberry and pistachio brownies. Mycroft chose not to inform his partner as to their gluten-free provenance. Nor that the raw white chocolate and raspberry cheesecake contained no sugar. 

The conversation at the table ranged from music to children’s, literature. Greg’s punk background, and Mycroft’s classical one, encouraged eclecticism. Siger was excited about beginning violin lessons after the holidays. He asked questions about their musical instruments - though Greg said, “Punk doesn’t mean actually playing instruments, you know.”  
Mycroft pointed out, “You have more experience playing the guitar than John does with the clarinet.”

“Daddy played a clarinet?” Siger found that idea exciting.

“When he was a child, Siger. He did not stick with it,” Mycroft told him. He felt smug at the pun, even if no one else understood it.

“How do you know that?” Greg asked with interest.

“I believe he told Sherlock at one point. There was a reference at the right time for me to hear it.” Mycroft said it simply.

Greg Lestrade snickered. At Mycroft’s raised eyebrow, “Picturing John in a school band.”

“Daddy sings with me, and Miri Cat and Ross Love,” Siger defended his father.

“Your _Père_ has a beautiful voice,” Mycroft told his nephew, “But he never liked to use it in public.”

Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade made a face at them. Mycroft corrected himself, “for singing purposes.”  
As they chatted, Siger had Uncle Mycroft write down Uncle Greg’s favorite books. Mycroft did not remember ever reading Willard Price’s adventure stories. Greg pointed out that they had not really aged all that well, though he was still fond of them. Siger’s list of favorite books was long. It included fiction, non-fiction, pictures books, a mix of titles shared by others, and read to him in three languages. 

“I will have to think, Siger, about what my favorite books were when I was your age,” Mycroft said.

“Did you read children’s books at all?” Greg asked around a mouthful of brownie.

“Of course I did. Treasure Island for one. Whom do you think read it to Sherlock for the first time?”

“I like,” Siger announced, “the part where Jim is hiding in the apple barrel. And Ben Gunn. Daddy always has to eat cheese after reading it.”

“I’ve never read _**Treasure Island**_ ,” Greg Lestrade admitted as he poured another cup of the really excellent coffee. At the dead silence he looked up to find both their nephew and his spouse staring at him. “What? It’s an old book. Not much read with the National Curriculum and all.”

“Uncle Greg,” Siger said reproachfully.

“Not to worry, Siger,” his Uncle Mycroft told him, “I’ll make sure that your Uncle Greg gets right on reading it, so that he can discuss it with you.”

“Oh, you will, will you?” Greg Lestrade cocked an eyebrow at his spouse.

“Yes,” was the response, simple enough, but Greg was not certain how to read the expression on Mycroft’s face.

After lunch there was the expected shopping for clothing. For all that Greg did not have the eye for fashion that Mycroft did, he had to admit that Siger looked well in the charcoal grey trousers, and the neat button up shirt - white shot with sage green stripes. 

It was Siger’s idea, however, to try on the emerald green vest. Greg’s look of amusement was not lost on Mycroft, who was wearing a three piece suit himself. 

“What do you think, Uncle Mycroft?” Siger asked excitedly.

“It’s quite eye-catching, Siger. Pique, and with a nice texture. And it will look very nice under a blazer, which is next on the list,” the well-dressed uncle replied.

The blazer did look good with the whole outfit, Greg had to admit. The colours went well with Siger’s complection and the bright copper curls of his hair. 

“May I have a tie as well, Uncle Mycroft?” Siger pleaded with hopeful eyes.

Greg laughed, “You’re going for the whole look, aren’t you, Siger? Let’s get the kid a tie, Mycroft. Lord knows that Sherlock’s going to kill us for the vest already.”

Siger cocked his head, and said consideringly, “ _Père_ said that I could choose what I liked that wasn’t hideous. Daddy said that I could pick anything I liked so long as you agreed it was alright.”

“Yes, Siger,” Mycroft smiled at the boy, “You may choose a tie. But it will have to be a real tie, and not a clip-on. Those are barbaric.”

Off Siger hopped to examine the selection of ties available. “Will you show me how to tie it, Uncle Mycroft?”

Mycroft nodded. Then he pointed out, “There are quite a few ways of tying them, Siger. Do you want the most often used?”

Wide green eyes stared at him from under the red mop of hair. “Would you teach me all of them, please?”

Another nod. They returned to their examination of the ties. Siger handled them carefully, putting several aside for further consideration. But then he saw one from across the display table. He made the sound, “Oh!” and ran around to pull it from the black iron holder.

This tie was a deep, dark red with curving vines of green and gold. Small birds sat among the vine leaves. 

Greg shook his head. “Sorry, kid. Even I know that red clothing doesn’t go with red hair.”

“Wait a moment, Greg,” Mycroft took the tie from Siger and held it up against those bright curls. “This red doesn’t clash.”

“I bet it would go with your hair too, Uncle Mycroft,” Siger said seriously. 

Mycroft Holmes held the boys tie up to his chin and gave his partner a questioning look. “What do you think?”

Greg Lestrade looked at that pale skin, the long nose, the twinkling eyes. He knew that Mycroft often despaired of finding bits of brightness to complement his wardrobe without fighting with his auburn hair. “It works,” he said entirely truthfully.

Siger Holmes went back to Baker Street with the charcoal trousers, matching blazer, the white shirt shot with green, the emerald vest, and the dark red tie. 

Unfortunately, Mycroft couldn’t find any article of clothing there that matched the exact colour of his nephew’s new tie. He admitted this with a sigh, as it was inevitable.

When his _Père_ and his Daddy asked him about his afternoon with Uncle Mycroft and Uncle Lestrade, Siger dug the tie out from the pile of boxes. “This,” the boy said urgently, holding it up to show his fathers, “is the colour of the tie we need to get Uncle Mycroft for Christmas!”

**Author's Note:**

> Also, I had a short story published this year!


End file.
